


donuts

by margosfairyeye (Skittery)



Series: Michael Guerin Week 2020 [1]
Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Alcohol, Donuts, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Michael Guerin Week 2020, Season/Series 02, handwavy alien stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:42:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26518423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skittery/pseuds/margosfairyeye
Summary: Between s02e01 and s02e05, Michael and Liz bond over light bulbs and donuts.-- --Fic prompt: “You don’t have to stay”Day 1 of Michael Guerin Week 2020
Relationships: Michael Guerin & Liz Ortecho
Series: Michael Guerin Week 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1928218
Comments: 8
Kudos: 45





	donuts

**Author's Note:**

> Fic prompt: “You don’t have to stay”
> 
> \--  
> cw: alcohol use
> 
> \--  
> This is the first Roswell fic I'm posting and I'm excited to be writing in this fandom! can't wait to meet all of you!

Michael watched Liz pull up in front of his trailer with a healthy amount of trepidation. He’d had a long night—a string of long nights, really—and Liz showing up unannounced was either good news or bad news. Michael wasn’t sure he could handle bad news. 

“Hey,” she called, climbing out of the car and walking towards him. She was still wearing her waitressing uniform, which was another odd leaning towards bad sign—she’d obviously left in a hurry, in the middle of a shift, and Michael would take odds that meant something had happened. No one ever came driving up to him to tell him good news.

“Hey.” He stood up from the chair he’d been slouching in, dropping the papers he’d been looking at on the ground and slipping them under a bottle. “What’s up?” Michael forced his voice to sound light, like he wasn’t anticipating her dropping some doom and gloom all over his day. 

“I need a favor.” 

Michael squinted at her against the sun and tried to steel himself for whatever it was. “What favor?” 

“Oh, no it’s nothing bad,” she said quickly, stepping closer to him. He could see now that she wasn’t frowning, didn’t seem afraid or panicked or upset—if anything, she just looked a little anxious, but not to any degree that would worry him. Michael knew how it felt to be as smart as Liz was, and a little anxiety was basically a constant personality trait. She took a deep breath. “Or at least not worse than a few exploded light bulbs...”

Michael nodded. 

“Well, every light bulb in the house, actually.” She frowned. “It’s getting kind of expensive.”

“So what do you want me to do about it? I’m not an electrician.” 

“No,” Liz said carefully. “But I thought maybe you could make some kind of alien-proof light bulb? It would help me—us—a lot.” 

"Right." Michael wasn't entirely inclined to spend his free time working on something odd and trivial like that, but at the same time, Liz was giving him hopeful puppy dog eyes, and he could use something light to spend time with, instead of the normal life-or-death stuff. Everything with Max was hard, things with Isobel were hard, with Maria, with Alex, everyone, and Liz was giving him something easy. Michael needed something easy. Not that he was going to admit that. "I can try, if it’ll help that much,” he said nonchalantly, "but I can't promise anything."

Liz beamed like he'd promised anyway. "Thanks, I owe you." 

"Yeah, you do," Michael replied, just to see her "yeah, right" expression, because that felt more normal than the pained way they'd both been looking at each other recently. Michael needed some normal, too. 

“Come by the Crashdown when you have something?" Liz called as she swept back towards the car. 

Michael nodded. He scooped up the papers he'd been working through and carried them down with him into the depths of his workshop. He'd been slowly making his way through the plans he had, slowly figuring things out, but it was painful and Michael was almost glad to have a reason to put it aside for a bit. 

Reverse engineering a light bulb to make one that Rosa couldn’t explode was a challenge, and he sat down to wrap his mind around it with something close to excitement. Maybe he could use the alien biotech he'd  **collected** . The material wanted to be together, he knew that, and that might translate to some resistance to exploding at the smallest surge of energy. Also, it would look pretty damn cool. 

He carefully unscrewed a light bulb from one of the lamps above his table to take apart. This was the way Michael liked to work—with a visible end goal, with ideas and plans that actually made sense, that didn't put anyone in danger, that didn't make his chest seize up at the choices he'd have to make if he actually finished. He could visualize the steps of testing, the intricacies of it, before he even touched anything, and that was satisfying, in a deep buried way that felt like himself.

The actual work was somewhat more complicated than the idea, and he went through all the light bulbs he had except one before he realized he'd never get anything done completely in the dark, and had to swing by a hardware store. There was something about exploding light bulbs. almost intentionally, that made him feel young, like when they were first trying to figure out their powers, and that feeling came with the expected pain but also a surprising stream of nostalgia. Michael would never want to go back to the time before he was an adult, before he could take care of himself instead of looking in fear at the people who were supposed to do that for him, but it was kind of fun to make the bulbs pop without any fear of repercussions, the same way it had been fun to move things with his mind before he knew doing it would make adults angry.

By the time he figured it out, it was late afternoon a few days later. He'd ended up with normal light bulbs that were adapted, re-engineered until they wouldn't break, or at the very least, they would knit themselves back together. It was a little cheesy looking, like tiny lava lamps, but it was effective. He was pretty sure Liz would hate it, but hey, that was her own fault for asking him.

Packing all of the adapted light bulbs into a little cardboard box, Michael drove to the Crashdown, relieved that Liz had wanted him to meet her here instead of at Max’s house, and aware that she’d probably done that on purpose. 

Michael pushed the door of the diner open with his elbow, holding the box and scanning the place for Liz. He didn’t see her, which wasn’t a great sign, since he was holding a box of really weird looking light bulbs. 

Arturo nodded at him as he stood there trying to figure out the best next plan. “Looking for Liz?”

“Yeah. She here?”

He pointed at a set of stairs going up to the apartment above the diner and beckoned Michael up to the counter. The place wasn’t too busy, the dinner rush past and the late night rush not yet started, but Arturo still leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Up there, keep going until you hit the roof. She thinks I still don’t know she goes up there, but,” he shrugged, “I know everything.”

Michael grinned and nodded thanks, heading up the stairs. At the top of two flights, he pushed open the door and stepped out onto the roof of the Crashdown, juggling the box he was holding between his hands as he looked around. He stepped around the sign and saw Liz sitting there, holding a bottle, with a white paper bag sitting next to her. 

“Hey,” he said appraisingly. He sort of hated Liz for being able to look put together when he knew she was as much of a mess as he was. It hurt more for not being either of their fault, but sort of being both of their fault; it hurt more that there was nothing to do but wait, when both of them would rather keep their hands busy. 

“Hey.” Liz put down the bottle and considered him, like she was coming out of a daydream. “How’d you find me?”

“You dad told me.” Michael tried to smile. “Not your best hiding place.”

Liz shrugged and took another sip from her bottle. “Rosa and I used to come up here, so… blame her.”

“Yeah, speaking of.” Michael held out the box to her and Liz took it tentatively, raising her eyebrow in a question. “They’re prototypes, so we’ll have to piss her off and test it, I guess.”

Liz laughed, harsh and short, like he’d surprised it out of her. She put the box down by her feet. “She’s at the house, I think. I hope. We can test it tonight. I’m good at pissing her off.” She paused for another drink, peering inside the box. “You’ll have to tell me how you did it.” 

“Tell me it works first.” Michael shifted uncomfortably on his feet. He’d done what he came here to do, delivered the box, and he really had no business staying here. But leaving Liz and her dwindling bottle of tequila on top of a roof felt like a bad idea. He looked at the empty space next to Liz, considering asking if he could sit. 

“You wanna sit?” Liz said, apparently reading his mind. “You look like you could use a drink. And,” she pulled open the paper bag, “I have the unsold donuts.”

“Well, if you’ve got semi-stale donuts…” Michael walked over and sat tentatively next to her, taking a donut from the bag when she held it open for him. He didn’t really want it, didn’t really even like sweets that much, but it felt meaningful. Like, a breaking bread together to seal a pact kind of donut. Like a friendship donut. 

It was really stale, though. Michael gladly took the offered bottle to wash down the crumbs that stuck in his throat. 

“Do you ever think about what you would have done differently?” Liz asked, staring out at the sky, looking melancholy. “If we’d all known the truth about…everything?”

Michael laughed humorlessly, a soft huff of breath. He thought about that constantly. What could have been different if they’d known about Rosa, about Noah, about Isobel, about the Manes, about Caulfield. He thought about all the choices he’d change, if he had any idea of their consequences, any idea of what truths led to the choosing; and he thought about all the choices he wouldn’t change, all the things he’d do exactly the same, to his own detriment, no matter what he started off knowing. And none of it mattered, but that’s just who he was, still staring at the past, no matter how much he wanted something different in the future. He just couldn’t stop looking behind him, counting the footprints. 

“Constantly.” 

Liz hummed in response. “Yeah. You know, Guerin, for two very smart people, we are not that smart.”

Michael laughed for real this time, taking another pull from the bottle. “Tell me about it.”

They fell into a companionable, if slightly awkward silence, both of them trapped in memories they couldn’t talk about, not yet, maybe not ever. Michael nodded at nothing, kicking his feet. He could feel Liz’s eyes start tracing him, taking in his expression, his moving feet, the way the silence hung around them. 

“ **You don’t have to stay,** ” she said abruptly. “I mean, I appreciate the company, but…I’ll be okay.”

Michael frowned. “I can leave if you want me to.”

“No, I didn’t mean that. But I’m sure you have better things to do than sit here with me.”

Michael scoffed. His plans for the evening were the same as every evening had been since Noah had died. Get drunk, cause trouble, hurt the people who wanted to hold him close. He didn’t want to hurt Liz, though; she didn’t want to hold him, or change him, or anything—she was drowning in the same water as him, and there was solace in the sinking company. He realized he didn’t want to leave. Or at least, he didn’t want to leave as much as he wanted to stay. “Yeah, my regular barstool’s really missing my ass right now.”

Liz squinted at him. “You have a regular barstool?” 

“You hide out on the roof of your restaurant with stale donuts?”

Liz nodded. “Touché.” She grabbed the bottle back from him. “You know what the worst part is?”

“What’s the worst part?” he asked obediently, even though he had some ideas of his own. 

“The waiting.” Liz pressed her hands together, exaggeratedly twiddling her thumbs. “People like us, we have to keep moving, keep working, or it all just…catches up.”

Michael didn’t have to ask what she meant. It was exactly how he lived his entire life. Keep moving, keep working, even if the movement wasn’t linear, and don’t stop, not for anyone—stopping meant thinking, meant looking too closely, feeling too strongly, it meant leaving time to take in the things that threatened to break him, that he could only avoid by not looking directly at them. Happiness kept moving in front of him, happiness and contentment, like rabbits pulled on a string around a track; he wanted them, he wanted to be happy, to be satisfied, so so badly, but he knew he’d never catch them if he stopped running. He wouldn’t wish that life on anyone. 

“So keep working, keep distracted.” He offered it like it was easy, like he wasn’t constantly, every day, warring with himself because if he let himself change goals, if he let himself really know that he was working towards something new now, it meant admitting that things really were the way they were, and that he couldn’t do anything to fix it. Michael was a verified genius who could move shit with his mind, but he couldn’t do anything useful, he could only break things. 

“Or drink,” Liz amended, and Michael had to admit, that often did seem like the best choice. 

They lapsed into silence again, but it was less awkward now that they’d felt out each other’s sense of duty versus actually wanting to be sitting there together. It was kind of nice. There was no pressure to be or do or say anything, both of them sitting with their small victory, content to be distracted from the larger issue for a moment—until it came careening back into view to throw any comfort off again. 

“You want another donut?” Liz asked, pulling one out for herself and then offering the bag to him. 

Michael looked from the bag down to the half eaten donut in his hand, a laugh bursting from his mouth unexpectedly. He hadn’t been laughing a lot recently, at least not genuinely. She waggled the bag. He realized it wasn’t about wanting another donut, or even about whether or not he actually ate them or just stockpiled them next to him, it was just about sharing something, about being able to give each other some small moment that felt good, or at least that felt okay. There was comfort in a box of light bulbs, there was comfort in a donut. 

Michael nodded and took another donut from the bag, taking a bite just to prove he appreciated it. 

“It’ll be okay,” Liz said, and it sounded like she was trying to convince both of them, it sounded like a question. 

“Yeah,” Michael replied, infusing his voice with nonchalance, and taking another crumbly bite of donut. “You’re a great scientist, and Valenti is a good doctor, and I’m—” He trailed off. Just trying to hold it all together. 

“You’re a good friend,” Liz replied, and Michael wondered if he had underestimated the level of her drunkenness. Up close, she was less put together than he’d thought—she looked tired, mostly, her eyes red-rimmed and her smile failing to reach them. 

“And you’re a little bit drunk,” Michael replied, trying to diffuse the earnestness of the moment. He couldn’t really do earnest right now, it was too close to honest, and that was too close to sad. “Need a ride back there?”

Liz nodded, smiling a little more genuinely, and stood up, wobbling just a bit. Enough that Michael took the box for her, not eager to test the quality of his light bulbs by dropping all of them accidentally off a roof. 

Climbing into Michael’s truck took a bit of an effort. Liz flipped on the radio when he started driving, swiveling the knob until it moved away from his normal station and landed on one playing 90s music that she, somewhat implausibly, remembered every single word to despite how drunk she was. Michael knew the song but not that well, and he smiled as he drove, as Liz swayed and sang and nudged him to do the chorus with her. 

Michael pulled up the truck in front of Max’s house, and took a deep breath. He had tried not to come by here, because it hurt too much, and because he was an expert at running away from problems he couldn’t readily fix. Liz followed his gaze to the house, looking wistful. Michael couldn’t imagine living there, now. 

Liz opened the passenger door, looking a lot more stable, and Michael wasn’t surprised—being here was sobering. She held out the donut bag, still containing a few remaining semi-stale donuts. “Donut for the road?”

Michael gave her an amused look. 

“You know,” Liz said, dragging the light bulb box onto her lap, “when we were in high school, people would kill for one of the leftover donuts. But,” she paused for emphasis, and Michael smiled in spite of himself, “only my friends actually got one.” She waggled the bag at him. “Want another donut, Michael?”

Michael sighed, ducking his head away from her, and then back after he’d taken a breath. It was…surprisingly nice, actually. The explicit acknowledgement that they were friends, that he could be part of something, even if he couldn’t have when they were in high school. He didn’t want to think about any of that too hard, because it was just a stupid donut, but there was something there that made Michael feel a little less like he had to hold everything together completely on his own. 

“Fine, gimme a donut,” he said, grumbling so that he wouldn’t do something ridiculous like affirm how much the whole donut thing actually meant. 

“Good,” Liz said, like that settled something, and she slid out of the truck, gripping the box and the bag and the bottle tightly. “Thanks for the ride.”

Michael took a bite of the dry, too sweet donut. He thought about this, sometimes, how his life might have been if everything was different—if he’d been adopted, if he’d been less bitter and protective of himself, if he and Alex had found each other sooner and hadn’t been so afraid—if he’d have had a group of humans, a group of friends, that actually wanted him there, instead of just feeling bound to him. It didn’t matter, because it wasn’t true, but he still thought about it, and wondered if he somehow had stumbled into that now, when he was old enough to know better, to do without it and yet, still secretly, desperately wanted it. 

Liz waved from the door and Michael reversed the truck away from the house, the small pile of donuts sitting on the seat next to him like a monument to something. 

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi to me on tumblr! [my (brand new) rnm sideblog](https://ineverlookavvay.tumblr.com)/[my main blog](https://margosfairyeye.tumblr.com)


End file.
